


Let Me Tell You a Story

by scorpion22



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Hotel
Genre: Accidental Kissing, Drunk Sex, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Kissing, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gentle Kissing, Ghosts, Neck Kissing, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Sex, Shower Sex, Uneasy Allies, Writing, true crime author
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2019-10-08 04:54:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17379968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpion22/pseuds/scorpion22
Summary: A woman comes to the hotel Cortez to write a book on the greatest serial killer the world has ever seen, James Patrick March. She thinks writing it within the walls the killer built will help her, but how will she react when the very subject of her book shows up for a one on one interview? M for later chapters.





	1. Chapter 1

Daphne Monroe had had a relatively successful career. She had loved history and crime and gore for as long as she could remember, she just hadn’t expected it to be her career someday. First, she was a historian, a professor after that filling students’ facts they didn’t really want to know, and then somehow without her knowing it, Daphne started writing books. First, she wrote crime fiction earning a moderate fame that she found she enjoyed as long as it meant she could still walk down the street then one day she decided to try her hand at something new. She decided to try writing nonfiction, to fuel her love of history by writing of it; she just never expected to be more successful doing it. Somehow before she realized it, writing about serial killers, about the sick and depraved souls that murdered innocents became her specialty. Daphne found living for the hunt for information, using all her spare time to hunt for her research until she woke up no longer able to deny how much she loved it. She loved looking at the crime scene photos ignoring the blood as she focused on the individual committing the crime. She loved walking in the footsteps of the killer and when she got to interview that killer, she always felt a special thrill inside. She really didn’t know how it happened, but overnight, Daphne found she was no longer the carefree fiction writing making up the horror, but the true crime writer looking at pictures of real victims and real killers in search of their motives. It bothered her for only a moment.  
“Writing true crime was something I just stumbled upon” Daphne would say as she faced TV cameras wondering about the change her twenty fiction novels piled beside her next to the others, she had written her eyes gleaming with the unspoken decision to never stop. She had looked at the crime scene photos, paid countless dollars for real memorabilia, and all the work she put in had been a success.   
Her first book on Ted Bundy had been a success, a raving success, and she never went back to fiction, she followed it with another, this time choosing Ed Gein as the subject. People always asked if she was scared as she walked in the footsteps of something so evil, but she always said no. Because it was the truth, Daphne didn’t feel fear as she interviewed people who’d witnessed the carnage or who had known the killer never suspecting. She never thought of it as walking in the shadow of a killer, but of that of a human being. For that was what she tried to accomplish with her writing, to discover why these killers just decided to begin killing one day; she looked at them without bias and in the end came to know what led them to be killers.   
“Before they were killers they were just like you or me” Daphne would say when some TV anchor grilled her on why she wrote on serial killers even as her books continued to be best sellers, first the one on Bundy then Gein, Manson, Jack the Ripper, Fish, and finally the one that led her to the hotel Cortez, Jeffrey Dahmer. She was going through items that had belonged to Dahmer, things she’d bought for a pretty penny, when she stumbled across a matchbook with the hotel Cortez scrawled across the front. She had found thousands of used matchbooks among his things, but this one stood out because it hadn’t even been opened. It was saved. Tucked away as if it was the most precious thing in the world. It was wrapped with great care in a white silk handkerchief, the initials JPM embroidered on it, and the second she touched it, Daphne felt something inside herself shiver. It was like this small book was supposed to lead her somewhere, she just had no idea where that was.   
Daphne kept the matchbook as she continued her research though at the time she didn’t know why. It was something she just kept coming back to even as she began to finish her book. And even when it was finished, Daphne came back to it. She didn’t leave it this time though, instead, she put her years of work and research to use, and it was then she discovered why. They were a clue leading to her next project, for the hotel Cortez was built by a serial killer.   
“James Patrick March” Daphne said his name for the first time, and it slid off her tongue like the very silk of the handkerchief that his initials were engraved on leading her to her next book even as her next book was being set to bookstores everywhere.   
“My next book will be on James Patrick March” Daphne told her publisher the very next day already making the arrangements to find out all there was to know on the man and his hotel. She started her research, found pictures of the man, clothes that once belonged to him, and then she discovered that the hotel Cortez still stood.   
As she looked at pictures of it online, Daphne could feel the hotel calling to her. She knew that she couldn’t write this book, the first of its kind, without seeing the place her subject had built. After all, she knew she could never interview the man himself, but perhaps seeing his hotel would be half as good. That was when another idea came to mind. What if she wrote the entire book while staying at the hotel? Daphne made the reservation to stay at the Cortez before her mind was fully made up and suddenly, she was on a plane to Los Angeles. The idea excited her the longer she let it settle there. It became something she was looking forward to even as she was stepping off the plane then driving to the hotel in a taxi. And then, she saw it, the hotel Cortez. She found herself standing in front of the building not able to go inside yet. She had seen pictures of it, but standing in front of it, Daphne felt that same chill run over her. It was like this was her destiny like this was where she was meant to be. Daphne looked at the sign with its big black letters trying to imagine it in its heyday when her feet moved on their own into the building. When she stepped inside, she wasn’t surprised that it too was right out of the 1920s.  
It was beautiful and smiling, she made her way to the reception desk pulling her bags and her boxes filled with research behind her. The first thing Iris noticed as she stepped up to the desk was each box was labelled James Patrick March.   
“Hi…are you…checking in?” exclaimed Iris feeling nervous as her eyes went back and forth between the girl and the boxes with his name on them.   
“Yes, I am. I made a reservation a few weeks ago under Monroe” whispered Daphne her vice kind as she pulled an envelope with cash in it out of her purse. She watched as Iris opened the guestbook before her finding only one reservation for that day.   
“Yes, it’s right here, Daphne Monroe. Checking in today and staying…indefinitely. So, it says here you’ll be paying six months in advance?” exclaimed Iris her voice faltering as she read the reservation info scrawled in Liz’s handwriting. Part of her couldn’t believe anyone would want to stay at the hotel, willingly, for that long. Daphne saw her surprise, but nothing faltered in her demeanor. She simply nodded her head not speaking until she felt like she had to as Iris continued to stare as if not believing her.   
“Yes, I’ll be paying six months in advance. I was also hoping to get room 64…I believe I said that when I made my reservation” whispered Daphne watching the surprise as it deepened on the woman’s face.   
“64, yes I see that written here. We usually don’t rent it out, but…I think we could make an exception if you’re sure that’s the one you want” whispered Iris barely finishing before the girl had grabbed the guestbook beginning to sign it.   
“Oh yes” exclaimed Daphne grabbing the pen to sign the guestbook before nearly yanking the key out of Iris’ hand.   
“Liz Taylor, take this girl to room 64” called Iris then, a bald woman appearing, her eyes seeming to scan over her noticing immediately the boxes with his name scrawled across them.   
The woman didn’t say anything as they rode the elevator to her room. It wasn’t until the doors opened with a ding and they were moving down the hall that a single word passed between them.   
“What brings you to the Cortez?” said Liz her eyes watching her closely.   
“I’m coming to stay here, so I can work on my next book. I’m a true crime writer and my next subject just happened to build this hotel” said Daphne giving the woman a smile as she waved at the boxes trailing behind her.   
“James Patrick March, you’re writing a book on him?” exclaimed Liz hardly able to contain her surprise.   
“Yes, I stumbled across his name, and couldn’t quite forget him you could say. And I would be the first to do so, my publisher liked that in particular especially when I wanted to come here to write it. We both figured it might give me some insight into who he was if I stayed in the hotel he built” whispered Daphne her eyes leaving Liz to look at the halls she walked in. They were elegant, more beautiful then that of any other hotel she’d ever stayed in. With the gold that seemed to embolden every surface along with the red that lingered alongside it. It gave her goosebumps to think that Mr. March had once walked these same halls especially when she came to room 64 where his office had been. She had expected it to look different from all the other rooms, but it didn’t. They stood in front of the polished oak door with its gold numbers. Daphne didn’t move to open the door, in fact, if Liz hadn’t opened it for her, she didn’t know how long she would have stood there. She could feel Liz watching her as she stared into the darkness of the room that had housed her latest subject.   
“This is 64. I hope you enjoy you’re stay at the Cortez…good luck writing your book” whispered Liz waiting for the girl to step inside. Her words drew her out of the trance she seemed to be in. Daphne looked at the woman and they shared a smile as she handed her a twenty-dollar bill. Liz accepted it without a word before turning, she walked away back to the elevator leaving Daphne standing there. As she walked away, hearing as the girl closed the door as she walked inside, Liz wondered how this would play out, but furthermore, she wondered how James March himself would react to the girl seeking to tell his story.


	2. Musings

From the first moment in room 64, Daphne knew she wasn’t alone. There was something supernatural, something sinister that seemed to be a constant presence around her. Something that seemed to be watching her, observing her, and waiting to see what she would do. At first, it came in the form of a chill then just a feeling until inching away from the door, Daphne made her way inside with her head held high, her eyes taking in this place that James Patrick March had built. For only a moment, she wondered if that chill was the taint of her subject’s soul, she was feeling but shook that thought away as she took in her surroundings.   
“James Patrick March…what did you picture when you built this place? Did you think it would last this long?” whispered Daphne, purely to herself as she circled the room, trying to picture it as it must have looking in the twenties, ignoring that feeling of eyes on her. The thought seemed to contradict itself as she took slow steps inside. She was sad to find that 64 was just like any other room. It had been painted over, sanitized in a way, to hide the evidence of the man that once lived within its walls. There was no evidence that James Patrick March ever lived here. It was just like any other room, with a bathroom, a bed, a living area, but nothing of importance to show its illustrious past.   
It made her sad as she began to unpack her bags, lifting the lid off one of the boxes that had his name on them last. She laid her research neatly across the floor just the way she liked it then began to arrange her clothes in the closet. It was as she was arranging each dress and skirt and dress shirt into the closet that she felt it again. Her shoulders felt as if someone was running their fingers across them. Like goosebumps wanted to rise, but they didn’t. Instead, she shivered, the sensation coming as a not completely unpleasant feeling as she looked behind her. Part of her almost expected to see someone there, but there was nothing at all. Just the same empty room, at least, that’s what she thought as she waited for that feeling to leave her, but it didn’t. It made the hairs on the back of her neck rise and standing stock still, Daphne waited. She kept waiting for something to happen. For the door to open, for someone to appear to surprise her or shock her, but nothing came. Only silence as she looked around still expecting something to come even as it didn’t. She told herself that she was alone, that there was nothing there, but even as she thought it, she didn’t believe it. Somehow, she felt like that was a delusional idea even as she turned her attention back to the closet.   
As she continued, Daphne kept that thought alive. That she was alone even as she wasn’t. Even as the subject of her next book watched her. As he kept his demon at bay and simply observed her. The woman he had already given the nickname, the writer. James stood right behind her. He ran his fingers over her shoulder blades, not because he wanted to harm her or scared her or for any reason whatsoever. He did it simply because he wanted to though he wasn’t completely sure why. He just did it anyway wondering what would happen if he revealed himself to her. Would she run? Would she scream? He wondered it even as he didn’t do it. He wondered what she’d do even as he eyed the boxes with his name scrawled across them.   
“I have to do some more research on this hotel before writing anything” whispered Daphne turning suddenly and walking right through him to those boxes he was staring at so intently, pulling papers out, and arranging them as she wanted them.   
“James Patrick March” said Daphne under her breath then, making James believe for only a moment that she knew he was there as he eyed her, watching as she wrote his name across a file folder she removed from one of the boxes, as he did, James still wasn’t sure what to make of her, the woman who was going to write of him, his life, and attempt to understand him when even he wasn’t sure he understood himself. Even as his first instinct was to kill her, he stopped himself.   
“Until now, I’ve been largely forgotten, but this woman could change that” whispered James, standing directly behind her once more, eyeing her with uncertainty. The words came curiously from his mouth and when they did, she turned as if she had heard him, and she stared right into his eyes. No one had ever been able to do that without flinching, but in that moment, she did. James stared back, both perplexed, but also with a dying feeling inside of him. Suddenly, he no longer wanted to kill her, he wasn’t sure what he wanted with her as he looked into those liquid candy green eyes, still uncertain, and unsure as he watched her still as she looked away. James had known her presence in the hotel as soon as she left the front desk. He had known why she was here and hadn’t known what to think of it as he waited in room 64 for her to come inside. He knew he was staying here because it had once been his office. She thought by staying here that she could decipher him or know him in some way. She was going to write the first book about him that ever existed. James wasn’t sure how he felt about her as he examined her with his eyes his thoughts becoming upended the longer, he looked at her. She was going to bring him into the light. To make sure the world knew who he was and try to make them understand the reasons why he did the things he did. She might even bring people back to his hotel. James found the thought thrilled him as he gazed at her with an expression of awe that he hadn’t worn in a very long time. She was going to secure his legacy, something he couldn’t even do himself, at least, not yet. It made James feel in awe of her though he wouldn’t admit it to himself. James had never thought of writing a book. Elizabeth, the woman he loved, who never returned his love, she never wrote a book. She just buried him, took his money, and then used it all until the fortune he had built was gone. Until his hotel was gone. Not like this woman, who was going to make sure no one ever forgot him again. Who was going to make the world remember him. James didn’t know what to make of her, this beautiful, somewhat strange woman with the eyes that seemed to search for things even when they weren’t there. She was his future, he thought it, but denied the thought as soon as he had it. James wasn’t unaware that he had been erased from history. Him, the greatest serial killer that had ever lived, and they had all forgotten he had ever lived at all. The world had forgotten, but he had not. He had spent all these years, walking these halls, looking for a successor, but none had been good enough yet. He had mentored many, but not found the one he needed. He had been searching for someone to continue his work and finally finish it, yet, been unsuccessful until this woman walked through the doors of his hotel. She had lifted him from between the pages of history and would introduce him to the world once more. James relished the thought as he came behind her once more, sweeping a lock of hair behind her ear, feeling as she stiffened. She turned to look at him again, before looking away just as suddenly, and walking away.   
Now, she had walked through the door, bringing with her the hidden secrets of his life. The story of his life. As he was going over the events of his life in his mind, Daphne walked right through him again. It made James look directly at her, his eyes trying to analyze her. The truth was he didn’t know how he felt about it. About her knowing about his past when he had never even shared those secrets with his wife. He was tempted just to kill her to keep them hidden, but somehow, he knew that he would be sacrificing his legacy if he did. James was torn, unsure of what he wanted to do as he watched her with more then killing on his mind. His mind becoming consumed with her especially when she walked through him for a third time. That third time stopped her completely. It wasn’t like before, where she started walking away from him. This time, it was like she felt him, really felt him. And the truth was, Daphne did. She felt something, something unfamiliar, something chilling in a sadistically sinister way as she stood there. Daphne found she couldn’t move. That she couldn’t shake that chill that overcame her in that moment, especially as it filled her with thoughts that were equally unexplainable. It was like she wanted to do something sinister.   
Daphne found her thoughts in that moment were evil. The type of thoughts the people in her books had. She had the urge to kill. To find anything that could be deemed a weapon and use it. On the nearest person she could find. James came to stand in front of her then and looking into her eyes once more, he recognized the look in her eyes. He had seen in his own many times. The thought shook her greatly as she just stood there. Daphne wasn’t easily shaken, but now, she had the urge to run out of the room.   
“This place is evil” thought Daphne in that moment, shivering as she was tempted to shrink back out of this room, out of this hotel, never to look back. Something else was telling her to stay though. To face the evil that lived here and let it become something she could understand. Something that could come to live within her. She had walked in the footsteps of the darkest beings and never once been afraid, she thought of that as she stood there. Because she knew if she left now, she would think about it for the rest of her life. That she wouldn’t be able to walk in those people’s footsteps anymore. That was why she stayed right where she was.   
Daphne came to stand taller in that moment, the look in her eyes changing right before James eyes. From feral and killing, to calm and resolute within a second, it stunned him as she turned, unknowingly walking away from him. If anything, James became more intrigued by her. He wanted to see what she would do next. It was that longing that stomped on the urge he had to kill her. Because Daphne wasn’t going anywhere. She had come to write a book and that was what she was going to do.   
“I am stronger than this place” whispered Daphne in that moment, just loud enough so that James could hear, images of the things she had seen filling her head. Those words seemed to give her some sort of peace as she settled into room 64. To anchor her as Daphne strode to only rely on what she knew. On the things she knew to be true and not the possibilities and rumors that stirred within this building built by a killer so long ago. James was surprised by that even as he admired it as he watched her stand there only a moment before going into the bathroom. His opinion was relatively unformed the longer he spent with this woman. Each time he thought he had formed it, it changed as suddenly, and he wasn’t so sure he ever wanted to know. She was an unknown, a mystery, something innocent and untouched by darkness yet completely at ease within it. She reminded him of Elizabeth, of the Elizabeth he had first known before that actor had ruined her by turning her into the monster that she was. Maybe that was why he didn’t want to murder this woman now? Because it would be a waste. Maybe because he admired her conviction as she returned, wiping her face as it was now covered in a beautiful sheen of water that he found somewhat enticing.   
“I’m here to write, simple as that” whispered Daphne in that moment, breaking the ghosts train of thought as she ventured back into the room, her steps fiercer and more determined than they had been before. It was almost sexy, enticing really, the way she walked, gathering keys, her purse then a pack of cigarettes stuffed in a box. Then she left the room with those same fierce steps that drew him to her so. James was with her as she traveled down the hall and when she stepped into the elevator, he rode with her down to the lobby. He watched her, wondering what she was doing or where she was going as she strode through his hall as if it was hers. The look on her face enticed his curiosity even more. It was strong and fierce, something that couldn’t be fazed. James enjoyed that look as she stepped out of the elevator and he appeared atop the balcony near the lounge to watch her. He didn’t touch her again, only watching, until she walked out the door with a silence that was almost unnatural. James remained where he was long after she was gone. He looked down across the expansive lobby of the hotel and as other ghosts appeared as if to take orders from their king, he gave them. Because he was still the king, this was still his hotel, and his word would always be law. Or he would kill whoever dared disobey.   
His voice rang out, decreeing, as a king would over his kingdom.   
“The writer is here to serve my purpose. To bring meaning to my life’s work…all of you are to leave her unharmed until such time as I decide otherwise. And when that time comes, it shall be I who decides her fate” snapped James, his eyes looking into each ghostly face as if making sure they understood him clearly before looking at Iris then Liz last, knowing they would see his words to fruition. When they nodded their acceptance, only then did James turn, and dissolve into the darkness. At least, that’s how it looked to them, but as he walked away into nowhere in particular, the writer was on his mind. He didn’t completely understand why at first until the thought stayed with him all the longer. The writer, Daphne, yes, that was her name. James thought of her fondly the longer he did think of her. Because she was his second chance. She would give him the place in history he deserved. The writer, he liked calling her that, as he walked the halls he had built, thinking as he always was. Only now, he was thinking of her on a constantly loop. She was on his mind as he entered the floor Elizabeth had given him so she wouldn’t have to see him anywhere else around the hotel. She made the place seem to glow, the gloom that had been in place, lifting to bring his hotel back to what it had been when he’d built it. His thoughts were of her, of what to think of her, but mostly of what to do with her. After she had served her purpose, after her book was written, and distributed to the world, what should he do then? James was unsure about that as he returned to his hall, lurking there, as if expecting to find something different then he had before. That was the true mystery when it came to the writer. Because James was torn when it came to her. Torn, somewhere between killing her, and letting her live. Torn, between revealing himself, and just letting her writing go on without his interruption. In so many ways, he was torn, undecided, and he didn’t know what the answer was to any of it as he finally came to stop outside room 78. His final resting place in almost every way.   
“What will she write of me?” whispered James, strictly to himself in that moment, some part of him feeling giddy at the many ideas of what those pages might say. To see what would become of it, as another wanted to keep her from revealing anything too personal. The things he never intended anyone to know. Something inside him told him to move aside and let her do what she would. To let her work without his intrusion. That maybe this was part of his destiny all along, he just never knew it. James liked that idea more and more; it halted any other thought he could have as he thought of his unfinished legacy. Maybe she could help him with his unfinished business in her way.   
“She will ensure my legacy” thought James in that moment picturing the victims that would come to his hotel when they knew of its history with a grin that exhilarated him.   
James found he wanted that as he made it back to room 78. Ms. Evers had a victim waiting on the bed and James took pride in the kill, the curious woman writer on his mind.


End file.
